additional information. It’s a remarkable document. May I touch on a few points I found salient, several not entirely clear?”
“Certainly.”
“You left Yale Law within six months of your degree. You never made any attempt to finish or pursue the bar. Yet your standing was high; the university officials tried to convince you to stay, but to no avail. That seems odd.”
“Not really. My brother-in-law and I had started our first company. In Meriden, Connecticut. There was no time for anything else.”
“Wasn’t it also a strain on your family? Law school?”
“I’d been offered a full scholarship. I’m sure that’s listed.”
“I mean, in the sense of contributing.”
“Oh.… I see what you’re driving at. I think you’re giving it more significance than it deserves, Mr. Ambassador.… Yes. My father declared bankruptcy in nineteen fifty-two.”
“The circumstances were untidy, I gather. Would it bother you to describe them?” asked the President of the United States.
Trevayne looked alternately at both men. “No, not at all. My father spent thirty years building up a medium-sized woolens factory—a mill, actually—in Hancock, Massachusetts; it’s a town outside of Boston. He made a quality product, and a New York conglomerate wanted the label. They absorbed the mill with the understanding—my father’s understanding—that he’d be retained for life as the Hancock management. Instead, they took the label, closed the factory, and moved south to the cheaper labor markets. My father tried to reopen, illegally used his old label, and went under. Hancock became a New England mill-town statistic.”
“An unfortunate story.” The President’s statement was made quietly. “Your father had no recourse in the courts? Force the company to make restitution on the basis of default?”
“There was no default. His understanding was predicatedon an ambiguous clause. And talk. Legally, he had no grounds.”
“I see,” said the President. “It must have been a terrible blow to your family.”
“And to the town,” added Hill. “The statistic.”
“It was an angry time. It passed.” Andrew recalled only too well the anger, the frustration. The furious, bewildered father who roared at the silent men who merely smiled and pointed to paragraphs and signatures.
“Did that anger cause you to leave law school?” asked William Hill. “The events coincided; you had only six months to go for your degree; you were offered financial aid.”
Andy looked at the old Ambassador with grudging respect. The line of questioning was becoming clearer. “I imagine it was part of it. There were other considerations. I was very young and felt there were more important priorities.”
“Wasn’t there really just one priority, Mr. Trevayne? One objective?” Hill spoke gently.
“Why don’t you say what you want to say, Mr. Ambassador? Aren’t we both wasting the President’s time?”
The President offered no comment; he continued to watch Trevayne, as a doctor might study a patient.
“All right, I will.” Hill closed the file and tapped it lightly with his ancient fingers. “I’ve had this dossier for nearly a month. I’ve read it and reread it perhaps twenty times over. And as I’ve told you, I repeatedly asked for additional data. At first it was merely to learn more about a successful young man named Trevayne, because Frank Baldwin was—and is—convinced that you’re the only man to chair that subcommittee. Then it became something else. We had to find out why, whenever your name was mentioned as a possible nominee, the reactions were so hostile. Silently hostile, I might add.”
“ ‘Dumbstruck’ might be more appropriate, Bill,” interjected the President.
“Agreed,” said Hill. “The answer had to be here, but I couldn’t find it. Then, as the material was processed—and I placed it in chronological order—I found it. But I had to go back to March of nineteen fifty-two to
“Certainly.”
“You left Yale Law within six months of your degree. You never made any attempt to finish or pursue the bar. Yet your standing was high; the university officials tried to convince you to stay, but to no avail. That seems odd.”
“Not really. My brother-in-law and I had started our first company. In Meriden, Connecticut. There was no time for anything else.”
“Wasn’t it also a strain on your family? Law school?”
“I’d been offered a full scholarship. I’m sure that’s listed.”
“I mean, in the sense of contributing.”
“Oh.… I see what you’re driving at. I think you’re giving it more significance than it deserves, Mr. Ambassador.… Yes. My father declared bankruptcy in nineteen fifty-two.”
“The circumstances were untidy, I gather. Would it bother you to describe them?” asked the President of the United States.
Trevayne looked alternately at both men. “No, not at all. My father spent thirty years building up a medium-sized woolens factory—a mill, actually—in Hancock, Massachusetts; it’s a town outside of Boston. He made a quality product, and a New York conglomerate wanted the label. They absorbed the mill with the understanding—my father’s understanding—that he’d be retained for life as the Hancock management. Instead, they took the label, closed the factory, and moved south to the cheaper labor markets. My father tried to reopen, illegally used his old label, and went under. Hancock became a New England mill-town statistic.”
“An unfortunate story.” The President’s statement was made quietly. “Your father had no recourse in the courts? Force the company to make restitution on the basis of default?”
“There was no default. His understanding was predicatedon an ambiguous clause. And talk. Legally, he had no grounds.”
“I see,” said the President. “It must have been a terrible blow to your family.”
“And to the town,” added Hill. “The statistic.”
“It was an angry time. It passed.” Andrew recalled only too well the anger, the frustration. The furious, bewildered father who roared at the silent men who merely smiled and pointed to paragraphs and signatures.
“Did that anger cause you to leave law school?” asked William Hill. “The events coincided; you had only six months to go for your degree; you were offered financial aid.”
Andy looked at the old Ambassador with grudging respect. The line of questioning was becoming clearer. “I imagine it was part of it. There were other considerations. I was very young and felt there were more important priorities.”
“Wasn’t there really just one priority, Mr. Trevayne? One objective?” Hill spoke gently.
“Why don’t you say what you want to say, Mr. Ambassador? Aren’t we both wasting the President’s time?”
The President offered no comment; he continued to watch Trevayne, as a doctor might study a patient.
“All right, I will.” Hill closed the file and tapped it lightly with his ancient fingers. “I’ve had this dossier for nearly a month. I’ve read it and reread it perhaps twenty times over. And as I’ve told you, I repeatedly asked for additional data. At first it was merely to learn more about a successful young man named Trevayne, because Frank Baldwin was—and is—convinced that you’re the only man to chair that subcommittee. Then it became something else. We had to find out why, whenever your name was mentioned as a possible nominee, the reactions were so hostile. Silently hostile, I might add.”
“ ‘Dumbstruck’ might be more appropriate, Bill,” interjected the President.
“Agreed,” said Hill. “The answer had to be here, but I couldn’t find it. Then, as the material was processed—and I placed it in chronological order—I found it. But I had to go back to March of nineteen fifty-two to
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